…so he was saying that even if he rolled the Olds
he’d still be standing in the rain with no clothes
blood running down his inner thigh turning pink
turning pink in the puddle at his feet
that all happened the July he hitch-hiked
out to ohio with a nickel in his pocket wearing blue shades,
and an Army shirt. Nothing much happened,
and he didn’t get laid, but he made much of the fact
in later years. In between the forms of poetry, decanted
philosophies, the lamps in which the genie had fled,
he rolled pennies carefully reading of tears, of one sort
or another. flipped through picture books, naked girls,
poems that other people wrote, the same thing.
wound up here, standing in for God in the play
didn’t have to do a lot, roll aluminum sheets, part seas,
that sort of rot.
that empty sort of feeling you get when the car is trashed,
and you’re still alive, but tumbling like a bird with a broken wing.
Gold trophy winner
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